In loving memory

Avo Veona Rogers

December 2, 1918 – February 23, 1996

Lived 77 years

Elko Cemetary · Elko, Nevada

“Assorted writings of Avo V. Rogers (These poems were handwritten on yellow tablet paper by Avo. There were no corrections or erasures) ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It always seems wherever you go The first thing the people you meet wants to know “So, aren’t you a stranger, where’s your home? And what’s the reason that caused you to roam?” And here’s the answer I always give. “When my hat’s on my head that’s where I live. Where the sun shines the brightest, the air is the lightest, where the stars shine down, many miles from town. When the moon has a smile on his broad face, It doesn’t make much difference about the place. Nor of the hours that pass silently on, With the breeze that comes with the first sign of dawn. Where the birds start to warble and trill, When the sun flings his first banner over the hill. Where the flowers bloom along the stream, Where the silence is shattered by an eagle’s scream. Where the grass will wave beneath the wind, And the strongest of trees will sometimes bend. Where the Mtns are hightest and the sky the bluest, The friends further apart but perhaps the truest. As long as the old sun keeps shining down, And the roads always lead away from town, To a place where the sky is always blue, That’s just where I’ll be waiting for you. I may be a stranger, but I never roam, While my hat’s on my head, I’m always home.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Just you, the hills, and God. Stillness covers all the earth, The wind pays tribute with a sigh, To the One who gave all this birth. The stillness covers all who come, And places their thoughts in one straight line, They grow ashamed of their small sins In the great outdoors of His design. Just you, the hills, and God There’s still time to change your way To replace the mistakes with better deeds And not always live with yesterday. The silence gives time for thought The space, the things you can still can do These are the things that can’t be bought Tho you may be down, you’re still not through. Between you, the hills, and God Is where your future lies. It’s up to you to do your best, Not keep you actions in disguise. Old wounds are healed and scars are hid In the hours spent in His domain Somewhere in that battered soul One spark of brightness may remain. Hope should once more lift her head, Fed by that flickering little light. This time she will not fail And the flame will soon be burning bright. There’s just you, and the hills, and God today, The silence stretches forever on There’s so much to think, so little to say, With just you, the h ills, and God. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ha, Nevada! The land of sage and snow and barefaced, baldheaded hills. Not so speak of sheepherders. Be still my heart! Where the sun shines and the wind blows 32 hours out of every 24 hour day. Where the chipmunks carry and extra blanket and the natives go nude. The flowers are so wild they have to be picked after dark. The whiskey flows like water under the ninth street bridge and “seven come eleven” is everyone’s byword. Divorces are as easy to get as a drink of booze and nearly as often. People are sent to the pen for cheating at cards while a man that pleads guilty of murder is turned loose. The snow gets forty feet deep in the draw and grass is still green at the top of the hill. The steam freezes to the tea kettle spout but merrily we live. The buckaroos celebrate Christmas by riding a grizzly with a cactus saddle and use a rattlesnake for a whip. Everyone steals everyone else’s cattle just to stay even. When the buzzards go out on an all day trip, they wear overshoes with fleece lined shoe strings and take their lunch along. Verily my friend, the West is wild. Avo Rogers  ------------------------------------------------------------ Some folks say the West is wild but what I’ve seen is pretty mild. I thought it tough as it could be But it doesn’t seem that way to me. In that rooting shooting Western book The villain slays reptiles without a look. He wears two big guns and a knife But never fails to run for his life. He rules the town with an iron fist. The men he’s shot he’s never missed. He swaggers and brags and drinks the booze Until he’s so full from his pores it will ooze. He holds a mortgage on a ranch. Oh my goodness, what a chance. To that fair haired damsel. For her he would ride through Hell. But she loves a neighbor lad who’s never done anything bad. He is the hero of the story. He gets the girl and rides to glory. The hero is a modes fellow With baby blue eyes and hair of yellow. He straddles his horse withs such ease But you could put a barrel between his knees. He strums a guitar with on hand With the other he slays the rubber band. The bandits are filled with lead But he hasn’t a misplaced hair on his head. He shoots the villain once or twice And all the while he smiles so nice. They race down a rocky slope And catches the villain with his rope. He saves the ranchers fair haired daughter Kisses her yes but he hadn’t oughter. The mortgage on the ranch he pays. The villain in the ground he lays. The hero and the girl are married To his ranch she is then carried. Or so it goes in the story book But in truth it was the same old line and hook. And in due course of time The children numbered nine. They took over the reins While the old folks nursed their pains. So we’ll leave them there in the rocking chiar With their fastly greying hair. For the ground is frozen tight And I don’t want to dig more graves tonight. A.V.R. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CARAVAN Oh, long and dusty caravan Against the summer sky Winding always westward As the days roll by Braving all the dangers Of the untrod plain Making camp at nightfall Then rolling on again Fighting for those precious miles Against your redskin foe Then with your numbers lessened Rolling west you go Perhaps an unmarked grave Is left beside the track It matters not the aching heart There’s no turning back It’s always looking westward Into the burning sun Always going onward Until the day is done ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A Pea-Picker’s Prayer-lude in B Flat He crawls through the vines with the greatest of ease The daring young man, he’s a picker of peas He parts all the vines with the greatest of class Sometimes on his knees and sometimes his ass If his movements are graceful and the boss he does please Then he is allowed to keep picking the peas Tho his fingers are sore and so are his knees Still he goes on just picking the peas He picks from morning till late at night Gets all the peas that grow in his sight He picks them good and he picks them bad Makes the boss mad and himself sad He wears ragged pants with holes at his knees He got those pursuing those beautiful peas He sings love songs to the girl he loves best While smearing pea stains all over his vest He loses his money be it one dollar or eleven Rolling the dice and yelling “seven oh seven!” He worries the boss and torments the crew Tells dirty jokes both old and new He follows the peas spring, summer, and fall If they won’t let him pick it makes him bawl He’s not a peapicker’s daughter or a peapicker’s son But he’s a pea picking son-of-a-gun A beautiful field, thirty acres wide By the time he crawls through it he’ll be minus some hide He doesn’t mind the heat of the sun All he wants is just to get done So for $.25 a hamper or less He picks the peas with great happiness But if he is hungry and eats those peas Then he can’t manage to get on his knees The seat of his pants is ragged and torn He wishes to God he’d never been born So here’s to the pea pickers young and old May they still be picking peas when they turn to gold! Amen! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Big Apple It’s just an apple that grew on a tree T’was picked and brought here for you and me To remove it’s insides and shave off it’s hide And send on the way to be dried. Such a lovely little apple with cheeks of red About ten more boxes and I’m sure I’ll be dead From before sunup to till after sundown We watch the apples go down and around We remove the skin and take out the core Slice off the specks, start on some more Some apples have worms crawling thru and thru But why take them out, they’re full of apple too. The checker gets cross and everyone gets sore They swear they won’t work here anymore But when the machinery starts up, they will be found Watching the apples go down and around They groan if they work, cuss if they can’t If the machinery breaks down They rave and they rant Some little flirt rolls her eyes at a fellow If his wife finds out she’ll sure raise a bellow If you want to know about the fellow next door You can find that out and probable lots more Talk about gossips, this place has It’s share There’s so many they get in each other’s hair You have to be careful when walking the floor If you happen to step on a slick apple core Your feet go up, you come down ker-boom An audible snicker goes around the room It’s on Tuesday night that we all feel so gay For that is when we draw our pay We don’t keep it long, it just can’t be done But before it’s gone, we’ll have some fun. When Saturday comes, we are weary and tired Wouldn’t care much if we got fired. It’s on Sunday we rest, or at least we try But someone has the nerve to make APPLE PIE! It’s apples and apples and apples galore It’s apples and apples , I don’t want anymore! So it’s apples and apples, and apples my friend And about apples, this is THE END! Avo Rogers -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE NOSEY PERSON That person who’s so nosey, Never seems to know When he ought to keep still and when’s the time to blow. He talks about his relatives, His friends and neighbors too. And the firs thing you know, he’s talking about you. There doesn’t seem to be a way To change him for the best. When he’s talking about me, He’s giving you a rest. He tells you where he’s been And the things he’s done. But he doesn’t care to tell you He was always on the bum. He thinks that everyone should heed his advice If you don’t hear it the first time, He’ll probably say it twice. He says the country’s gone to hell, Nothing is done right. The way the president does things, My God it’s such a sight. Now if he was up there just one short day, He’d change the labor laws and stop the W.P.A. The budget would be balanced, Prohibition would come back. Just to give the gangsters A chance to make some jack. Leaders of distant countries will come from far away To learn to run their empires and what he has to say. The many things he tells that he would surely change, Even to the horns on cows that wander on the range. When it comes right down to it, He never gets anything done. All he does is sit around And blow from sun to sun.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Cabin in the Cañon There’s a cabin in the cañon Nestled by the stream. A cabin in the cañon And also in my dreams The birds all sing so sweet there It seems that they must know That you and I will meet there It seems that they must know That you and I will meet there As we did once long ago You promised then to love me And that we’d never part That mine you would forever be And gave to me your heart The cabin in the cañon Shall always be our home From the darling cabin I hope we never roam Where the trees all sway so gently And the rippling stream to say “It’s love and evidently You are coming here to stay” A cabin in the cañon Wrapped in honeysuckle vines And the flowers nod so neatly Ore the paths that twist and twine While the birds all sing so sweetly Down by that happy little stream The cabin’s in a canyon But also in my dreams ------------------------------------------------------------ Pot Wrasslin’ Blues I’ve got those old pot wrasslin’ blues From the top of my head To the tips of my shoes Dirty dishes here and there Dirty dishes everywhere Stacked upon the table Thrown upon the floor Even when I think I’m thru You can always find some more Seventeen plates in the old dish pan Seventeen knives, forks, and spoons Such back breaking work would kill a man But we have these morning, night, and noon Greasy water splashed through the air Soap suds sparkling in my hair A dish pan hung around my neck I’ll marry as a house keeper by heck It seems we never get enough Of washing dishes it’s the stuff Three times a day I wrassle them ‘round Three times a day they get me down Who was the fair haired boy who says “work never kills” It would be more than joy To get him in these hills Put an apron round his middle Make him scrape and scour the griddle Polish up the silverware Keep the dishes looking fair Wrestle with the pots and pans They’ll be cleaner than his hands Soap suds splashes in hie eye To look at dishwater makes him cry I’ll bet he’ll get his fill inside of a week His manners will be mild and meek From his soapy head to his greasy shoes He’ll be singing the pot wrasslin’ blues  --------------------------------------------------------------- ( I think this was about Joe Williams, Veta and Jack Williams son) JOE There’s one little fellow who stands so tall Keeps his feet going down the road We’re betting that he doesn’t fall To the wrong path to the wrong path That will put such a load On the shoulders of those who care He goes to school and learns as he should Play hooky? No, I don’t think he would He plays, but then he works too He doesn’t play till his work is through His name is Joe and he’s all these He’s one hundred per cent ok Every year, every week, every day He’s one little fellow that’s mighty good Do anything wrong? I don’t think he would. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Avo Veona Rogers

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